Allow me to introduce Beatrix (Bebe for short) and Ozwald (Ozzie for short). They are a very fat, orange female cat with a pea-sized head (compared to her body) and a very snugly, most probably partially blind and exceedingly dim-whited bearded dragon, respectively.
As you can see, they hang. They even cuddle. Bebs does enjoy a good game of chase on the rare occasions that Oz is out of hibernation long enough to scamper around the house. And yes, when he is awake (approx. 4 months a year) he is generally free to roam, or used to be anyway. Enter Mylo.
Let me now get to the meat of this post. I have a small problem. One which I am certain Mylo will take major issue with in years to come. Thankfully the animals don't know or care or, if they do, they aren't saying. It's my 'pet' names. And by pet names, I mean terms of endearment and, I suppose in this case, coincidentally, also the names I call my pets (and kid).
|my husband bought me this stuffed poop. Telling?|
It's true, a largish selection of our pet names for him also have something to do with poo. I'm not going to get into them, for fear of irreparably scarring my child in the future, but suffice it to say, I had better start working on some more appropriate names, pronto. Seriously, am I the only one? Tell me there are more of you wierdos out there who have a passing preoccupation with poop. No? Ok, it's official, I'm a freak. My poor kids. Only love.